


Points of View

by Archangel_Beth



Category: In Nomine
Genre: Except Djinn don't care, F/M, He didn't safeword, She said if he safeworded, Technically non-consent, not safe for work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-23
Updated: 2004-11-23
Packaged: 2020-01-13 00:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel_Beth/pseuds/Archangel_Beth
Summary: Novalis is trying to make Asmodeus care a little, and refuses to have any angst whatsoever. These being Superiors, everything is going to be filtered through their Words -- and Word-wrestling can get a little kinky.(Technically, he's not consenting. Functionally, he could bring more reserves to bear and bamf on out of there, and isn't. Djinn are the very definition of ambiguous consent in this setting.)





	Points of View

* * *

_Once upon a time,_ he might have written, if he were not busy tracing a connection, _there was an annoying Calabite who, among other things, ran Renegade, pretended to be a Game-demon while Renegade, had captured the actual Servitor sent to apprehend him, and then redeemed._

Ah, there was the connection. He concentrates harder, forming a Song in his mind. So of course he cannot finish the story, _So the Prince of the Game sent him a Song of Tongues, granting this traitor ex-demon the Rites of the Game as a reward. And there they sat for years._

He doesn't smile with satisfaction, as he spins off an instantiation, but there is perhaps a hint of fang showing behind his thin lips.

_Until now._

He arrives at sunset, of course. The place is wooded, the air spicy with the scent of blooming things. And in front of him, eyes wide, is the lean vessel of the traitor -- gone androgynous where once it had been aggressively masculine.

No matter. He reaches out, beckoning, but the traitor has already spun about and accelerated with inhuman speed, the ringing disturbance indicating the urgency of the flight.

But that is also no matter. His own pacing pursuit is far faster than it would seem. He allows himself a hunter's smile as he walks, his hands clasped behind his back. And, of course, he notices his surroundings: rustic, pastoral, full of wildflowers and cultivated sorts, all in bloom -- as they should be, at this point of the season. Some are new buds, others fading, many in the fullest flower. Holly hedges and arbor vitae flourish in zen randomness, and mostly obscure a log cabin from sight.

And as he rounds a corner of a hedge -- dismissing thoughts of Tethers from his mind, as this has none of the feel of one -- something lands around his neck, softly and soft, like...

...flower petals. He frowns at them, and raises a hand to break the floral noose -- and cannot.

The one holding the other end lets her shadowform Song fade, and blows him a kiss. He fingers a petal and does not let his scowl escape. She's in her "ditzy blonde flowerchild" vessel, with a tight green and yellow tie-dye sweater and faded jeans. There are grass stains on the pants, of course, and on her bare feet. Her eyes are the precise color of common lilacs -- probably because daffodil hues are quite beyond the pale of human probability.

He allows her to reel him in a bit. "Novalis," he complains, outwardly ignoring that she's wrapped her peacefulness around him like some itchy, warm sweater. "You can't mean that _you_ acquired that wretch. Do you know what he _did_?"

She dimples. "Oh, Asmodeus, I don't know. Outsmarted about seven separate Gamesters and a dozen other demons, maybe?"

"Yes!" He folds his arms and looks down -- rather far down, considering that her ditzy-blonde vessel is short and he prefers to be tall. "He wouldn't have taken service with _you_."

Novalis shrugs, bouncily. "'Fraid so."

_What a waste,_ he doesn't say, because he's too busy picking at a petal in the hopes it will unravel. He's only bound in this one instantiation. He could easily call for aid from one of his allies. Still, the loss of respect...

"What are you doing here?" he asks instead. "This is no Tether of yours."

She pulls her noose-holding hand back, which draws him close enough that her vessel's breasts smoosh against his ribs. "Nope, not a Tether. I've been preparing it."

"This... was _his_ idea. He deliberately took dissonance, to lure me into a prepared trap." Curse it all, the Calabite would have been a perfect addition to the Game's ranks, if only he hadn't been spoiled by redemption.

Novalis beams at him. "Exactly." She turns around, pressing her back against him now, and tugging his neck down so he has to bend towards her and see her happy smirk.

He doesn't give her the satisfaction of seeing his annoyance. She mock-pouts -- the effect entirely ruined by her glee -- and starts off toward the cabin, towing him after. Her voice is almost serious as she says, "Asmodeus, we need to have a _talk_."

"I suppose," he plays along. "Perhaps we can discuss a Servitor trade?"

"No."

"Borrowing his service?"

"Absolutely not."

"I could leave him Ofanite."

"..." She actually thinks about that, as she opens the door to the cabin. "No, I don't think that would work out."

"Pity." He looks around. The place is filled with plants, of course. Vines, mostly, twining up and down the walls, across the table, and around the bed and stool that are the only furniture in the place. What's not a vine is a flower that is also a relic -- several of them, on shelves. Each blossom glows gently, casting light. "This place is against the rules."

She leads him over to the bed and knots the end of his... leash... around a bedpost. "I've been living here, making sure no one finds it. I'll tidy it up after I go."

Since the tether is too short for him to stand, he sits. Since it's too short for him to sit on the stool, he is forced to rest upon the bed. "Very well. I am present and sufficiently humbled. Talk."

Novalis puts her hands on her hips. " _Djinn!_ You are so _exasperating._ "

He doesn't tell her that's partly the point, because there's no reason to play a card of smugness at this time. He's more patient than she is. He's more cynical than she is. He can out-wait her, his defenses better arranged, and while having his hair plaited with daisies is probably inevitable, embarrassment only matters if you can't order bloody executions to deal with the ones who might laugh. And since he can, he can always keep the flowers in while he watches.

The thought gives him a certain satisfaction, and is less boring than being glared at by a self-crippled Archangel.

She tosses her hands in the air. "Fine! Fine! Be that way! See if I care!"

He's about to ask the expected -- and annoying -- _Do you?_ when she takes both hands and shoves him onto the bed, unexpectedly strong and fast. It's close enough to violence to startle him into lying askew and actually blinking. The vines wrap around his wrists and ankles, but it's only when she peels off her shirt that he lifts his eyebrows. "If I don't consent, it's legally ra-- _oof._ "

"Oh, hush, you!" She glares down at him from where she sits on his chest. "You're a Djinn, and you don't give a damn. You can't be _bothered_ to consent. The moment you start caring one way or the other what I do with your vessel, you can just call safeword about it, right?"

He could say, _Fair enough._ He could say, _Molester._ He could make comments about lying back and thinking of chess -- no, best make that checkers, all things considered. But any of those would be playing into her hands, giving her progress toward her victory conditions. So he only lies there, not even settling himself, and looks at the ceiling.

"Oooo." She stamps one bare foot on the ground. "You are _trying_ to be difficult."

He's almost not surprised when she rips his shirt open -- but violence and Flowers together, even in this sort of scene... If he weren't nigh paralyzed by her peace-aura, he would have suspected some other Superior trying to make a fool of him. But he can tell this is no Song that robs him of the will to snap her vines, take her by the throat, and hurl her broken vessel through a wall. No, it's pure Archangel of Flowers, and not yet worth the Essence to break free of the cloying influence.

"How did you gain that traitor's services?" he asks, instead, hoping to spoil her mood.

"He asked," she replies, undoing his belt and yanking it through the loops.

Perhaps the wrong tactic. He settles for a milder reply of "Mm."

It doesn't help. With the tougher leather of his belt moved aside, his pants are no match for her strength and -- from the barely-there scratches -- her claws. Or, knowing her, thorns.

He frowns inside, pondering. What is her victory condition? No doubt she would let him go, if he "cried safeword" to her. Was that what she hoped for? Would she go through with this move if he did _not_ call her off? And was _that_ what she desired?

He turns his head a little to look at her. She's peeling out of her pants now, her skin glowing slightly even as the relic blooms do, and he has to admit that this is unlikely to be mere bluff. (And, as predicted, her vessel is a natural blonde.) So, a threat to one piece, or a split?

She's an angel. She might be stupid enough to say. He asks, "And if I don't 'call safeword'?"

She sits on his chest again, with less force than before, and caresses his cheek and shoulder. Her eyes and smile are sad. "Even Djinn need love. Maybe especially Djinn."

A fork, then -- a piece lost either way. ( _Blast_ but it was a nuisance to not have that now-Ofanite as his own. Clever wretch.) But what were the relative values of the pieces? And which one did _she_ want more?

Her kiss holds no answers. Or surprises -- he'd expected the faint honeysuckle taste, just as much as he'd expected the exquisite skill she displays. He has -- and he will admit it to himself, if no one else -- certain preferences. Darting, flickering, unpredictable kisses do not impress him. The slower stroking of her tongue against his (as he lies there, his eyes half-closed, allowing her touch upon him), that is far more satisfying than some little butterfly-emulation.

It's a vessel. It responds, as she strokes her tongue along the roof of his mouth and against his teeth. And as he responds, he feels himself brush against her. She purrs against his lips.

So, since it's _his_ vessel, he shuts down the arousal. It is merely a matter of taking conscious control of certain muscles, and far more effective than attempting to distance his mind would have been. The world of plants contains far too many aphrodisiacs to rely on mundane methods of passive ( _very_ passive) resistance.

Novalis pulls away, those improbably lilac eyes narrowed. "Don't make me put a Will-shackle on you, Asmodeus. Lie back and enjoy yourself like a good Djinn."

Again, each and every response ( _Or? So? Of course I'm a **good** Djinn._) would be a response, and thus a point to her. He contemplates the ceiling. Maybe Dominic should find out... But not during; that would make it seem too much like a rescue, and thus be a bad play.

She slithers down to regard his unresponsive anatomy, and he must admit that keeping himself ostentatiously unconcerned means that he can't tell what she's going to do next when she's down there. He remarks, again hoping to break her mood, "My foot is going to sleep."

Without fanfare, she hooks her heel behind his calf -- which is pressed against the edge of the bed, and indeed having blood-flow restricted -- and drags it up onto the bed. Much more comfortable, and she's still regarding him from close range.

"Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome," she chirps in reply, and before he can ask about the weather, she licks him.

He hadn't shut down the nerves (for if he did, that Will-shackle might be brought into play, and that would start to get serious instead of _just_ mildly mortifying), and his control over his vessel slips a little. Muscles clench, starting up the primitive, fleshy hydraulics again.

"Oh, _good_ ," she says, and sucks him in.

"Mmf," he says, because it's either that or gasp -- cursed vessel -- and it's the lesser of the two evils. Her mouth is warm (of course), and slick (of course), and after a moment she's using just a _hint_ of teeth, which he didn't know was going to make his vessel pay attention, but it does, even with all the rather wet and undignified noises that go along with her movements. She's also stroking her tongue up and down, as she moves -- first one side (up and down) then the other (up and down) -- and it's far more distracting than he thought it would be.

He takes a deep breath, which tastes of spicy flower fragrances, and suddenly has a good idea why he's having such a hard time keeping control of his own body. Plant-based aphrodisiacs, indeed, and he can hardly stop breathing.

So... if he's going to be aroused, and it seems he's not going to escape that, the questions become: does she want to go through with it? where does the most benefit to himself lie? where does the least benefit to her lie? And _whose idea was this, anyway?_ Did Novalis think of it, or that wretched Renegade of hers?

He has an annoying feeling that it was the Ofanite. It's too tricky. Who would have thought a Gluttony-Calabite would be tricky?

"Well, that's better!"

He actually looks this time, down to where Novalis is crouched on all fours, smirking happily at the evidence that his corporeal vessel is capable of trapping blood in a frequently useless extremity. Briefly, he considers altering it to unhuman proportions, to be more daunting, but with Superiors, the game of shape-changing would be unlikely to be anything but a draw -- and so a waste of effort and energy, for no gain.

Running through the possible moves, even for him, takes a little time. She shifts herself, rubbing his traitorous body-part against her thighs. Her fingers are firm (which, drat it, he likes), and her saliva drying upon him has cooled him enough that her skin is very warm again.

"Mmm, who's a lovely stamen, then?" she coos, and settles her own personal flower against him -- all pink, and gold, and he's very annoyed that he's seeing anything through the filter of _her_ Word. But closing his eyes only focuses on her being slickly tight (she's probably cheating, manipulating her own vessel, or maybe just allowing it to be affected by her own dratted blooms), so he watches her instead and tries to think of chess-pieces (his king half-way into dangerous territory, not stamens, not flowers, not nectar dripping down and cooling his skin), of cards (poker face, poker face, and perhaps a royal flush against her skin), or of checkers (her nipples bright red, kinged), that's better.

She stops halfway, with inhuman control. Gives him a squeeze to show off. And, smiling down at him, holds out her hand to the side.

Vines deposit a box into her grasp. And once again he is not quite unsurprised as she pulls out a pair of clothespins. "Isn't that violence?"

She reaches forward, to roll his vessel's nipples between her fingers -- the arousal is enough that the discomfort somehow translates directly to his groin, twitching him inside her. "Only if I didn't stop when you safeworded. Are you?"

He half-lids his eyes, daring her to continue, and mapping out some unexpected freedoms that Novalis' Word allows her. He wonders if she realized them on her own, or if he has another crime to charge the traitor Ofanite with... Inciting disrespect of a Prince, yes...

She gathers up a handful of flesh, and slowly allows the clothespin to settle around the nipple. He finds a growl in his throat, but that would certainly be playing toward one of her obvious goals, so he doesn't voice it. She doesn't go after the other nipple immediately; first, she moves herself, up and down his half-trapped king (no, he will not let himself think of hummingbirds or bees delving into blossoms) until the line of pain is not quite pain but tightness instead.

He has to concentrate to keep his breathing even, but he does. Even when she adds a second clothespin and a second white line of sensation to his body.

It takes more concentration, when she begins to move on him. _King... trapped in enemy territory,_ he reminds himself. He has to breathe as she moves, if he wants to keep from a ragged gasp. And that -- he realizes with a fury that cannot get past his skin -- controls him as much or more than the cursed flower-noose she's bound him with. He can only grit his teeth, refuse to buck against her (he couldn't hurt her anyway), and try to ignore how she's honey-slick, how he can feel the petal-soft roughnesses and textures of her, how her body blushes...

His fury is washed with true arousal, of the spirit and not just the body, as he sees the effect _he_ can have on _her_. He does arch now, moving to make _her_ gasp, growling to make _her_ shiver, struggling to let her taste of the power...

"Oh!" (He almost hisses aloud, seeing the realization in her eyes; her Servitor's not the only clever one, apparently.) "Oh, you _naughty_ Djinn!" She pulls at air, and vines wrap around him, pinning him to the bed more firmly, at thighs and hips and stomach.

He growls, and she can't stop that -- though she tries to frown at him -- if she doesn't want to make his vessel dead. Now there are just two moves Novalis can make: to stop, and admit defeat (even as calling safeword would admit a kind of defeat for him), or to continue and risk that he might win.

She pushes down (and is his king threatened, or does he threaten?), and squeezes him tightly, digs her hands into his shoulders. He lets her move, lets her twist her hips (and how it's hard not to gasp when she does it again and again), lets her stroke him until it seems his vessel will split with the sensations -- and then he moves as much (as little) as he can, twitching within her at just the right times, with all the control that is _his_ to command.

The Archangel gasps, and squeezes tight around him, pulling the clothespins off and making the lines between nipples and groin flare hot again. She bites her lip as she squeezes him again and again, stifling what cries she might have made, and it's knowing that she couldn't withstand him that tears a guttural noise from his throat as the checkmate comes with flaring chessboard patterns behind his eyes.

He allows his breath to be ragged with his triumph, gazing up at Novalis. She props herself on her arms, panting, squeezing with aftershocks, sweaty with the exertion.

And as he is just permitting his lips to curl into a smug smile, she opens those improbable lilac eyes -- and smiles first. She leans forward, as the vines loosen and slip from his body, and wraps her arms around his shoulders. She kisses him, softly, gently, and as she pulls back, she whispers, "That was wonderful, Asmodeus. Thank you."

Then she is gone, leaving only flower-petals to sift down onto his torn clothing and mostly-naked vessel, and the Prince of the Game is not sure who won after all.


End file.
